


Until You're in My Arms Again

by MollyPollyKinz



Series: Sad Guitars and Soft Lullabies [2]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom
Genre: Character Death, Child Abuse, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mourning, Reunions, Violence, Wasn't planning on adding to this story but I did, some blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:08:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29833716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MollyPollyKinz/pseuds/MollyPollyKinz
Summary: “Wil?” Tommy had asked one day when he was eight and Wilbur was sixteen.Wilbur had looked up from the book he was reading. “Yeah?”“I don’t want to die.”
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: Sad Guitars and Soft Lullabies [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2193285
Comments: 35
Kudos: 306
Collections: Completed stories I've read





	Until You're in My Arms Again

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a series, so I'd recommend checking the first one out if you haven't already.

Tommy had just wanted closure.

At first, he had been angry at Sam for locking him in this prison, for keeping him here with Dream, because _he couldn’t stay here, he had to get OUT—_

But then a guitar appeared through the potato dispenser. Tommy grabbed it before the water could destroy its quality.

It wasn’t Wilbur’s guitar, _thank god._ Tommy didn’t trust Dream not to destroy that particular item within the week of Tommy being stuck in here.

Still, Tommy had a hard time believing that Sam had actually expended resources to send him this guitar. Guitars weren’t easy to make.

Maybe Sam felt bad for locking him in a _dang prison_ with _Dream_.

Speaking of Dream…

“Ah yes, your precious hobby,” Dream said, smiling, “Are you going to play something for me again, Tommy? It’ll be just like exile; you played pretty well last I remember.”

Tommy suddenly felt sick. It was hard to hold the guitar steady with how much his hands were shaking.

He couldn’t do this.

But he had to.

Tommy flipped Dream off with a glare, not trusting himself to speak. Instead, he sat down, tuned the strings, and began silently strumming a tune. It was louder and more panicked than Tommy usually played, but it was the only way Tommy could possibly hide how much his hands were trembling.

“Still sounds good,” Dream continued during a lull in the music, “I bet Wilbur would be—”

Tommy drowned him out with louder song, making sure to play it in the most annoying way possible.

Dream lasted two days before throwing the guitar into the lava. Honestly, Tommy was impressed. Maybe he was a ‘changed man’ after all.

Maybe Dream had decided to give up the nice guy act.

Regardless, Sam sent in another guitar about an hour later, so there was no real loss. Tommy made sure to fill the cell with _extra_ infuriating music after that. It helped him sleep (which was only for like an hour at a time), and it helped Dream get a massive migraine, so there was no real loss.

And then a week had passed. And Sam still wouldn’t let him out.

And Tommy had killed the cat all while taunting Dream.

And Dream had started mocking him.

But Tommy hadn’t expected two _devastating_ punches to the ribs, knocking him backwards into the wall.

“Wait—”

Tommy wasn’t allowed to continue as Dream slammed his fist into Tommy’s nose. Blinding pain followed the loud cracking noise, and hot blood began pouring out of his nose. Tommy tried to wipe it aside, pushing back.

“Stop!” he shouted, “I’m not—”

_“I don’t want to die,” Tommy had said once._

Dream ignored Tommy, slamming him against the wall. Stars burst into Tommy’s vision, and he could barely do more than pull himself upright as Dream picked up an instrument… the guitar off of the ground.

“You never really got over Wilbur, did you?” Dream asked, inspecting the guitar like it was an interesting artifact, “Never really ‘got closure,’ like you say.”

Tommy snarled, ignoring his pounding headache and blurring vision. “Shut up, I’ve had my closure.”

Dream tilted his head, as if considering the statement. “Then what do you call this?”

_“I wouldn’t worry about it. You’re not dying for a long time,” Wilbur had said in reply._

“It’s called keeping his memory alive, there’s a freaking difference.” Tommy was starting to feel very dizzy now, and he was still sitting down. He hoped Sam would throw down some regen soon.

“You want to keep his memory alive?” Dream shifted his grip on the guitar, now holding it like a sword or a baseball bat.

“Put the dang guitar down, Dream.”

Dream hummed, stalking closer to Tommy. Tommy instinctively shrunk back before trying to pull himself to his feet. Dream instantly punched him in the face, causing Tommy’s head to hit the back of the wall painfully.

“If you miss Wilbur so bad that you have to keep him close with a guitar,” Dream began, lifting the guitar in the air, “Then why don’t you visit him yourself?”

Tommy opened his mouth to reply, but was cut short by the guitar _smashing_ into his skull. The strings echoed loudly, and instrument broke on impact, leaving splinters to shower the ground, but Tommy’s ears were ringing too loudly for him to care.

Something hit his head, and everything stopped.

Tommy could hear the guitar.

He was lying in a something soft, but it wasn’t a bed. He wasn’t particularly worried over it, though. Instead, he kept his eyes closed as he listened to the chord progressions.

It sounded like something Wilbur would play.

Overcome with curiosity, Tommy slowly opened his eyes, finding himself staring up at a bright blue sky. He was lying a field of some sorts, but it wasn’t the same sort of field that made him feel all mixed up around inside.

It was a flower a flower field, if the flowers that were surrounding his peripheral vision were anything to go by. He couldn’t identify any of the flowers, but there were practically all sorts of colors.

The guitar was still playing.

Tommy slowly pulled himself to his feet, astonished by how _weightless_ he felt. It was as if he wasn’t feeling any pain at all, which, come to think of it, he _wasn’t._ All of the pain was gone. Heck, he was even feeling strangely at peace right now.

Not bothering to wonder _how_ he got there—it was all likely a dream, anyway—Tommy started walking toward the sound of the music, which was sounding more and more like Wilbur by the minute.

Tommy followed the sound of the strumming all the way to a tree in the center of the field, and his heart leapt out of his chest.

Because _Wilbur_ was sitting underneath the tree, strumming on his guitar, singing too softly for Tommy to hear.

And Tommy suddenly understood.

He wasn’t dreaming. He was dead. Dream had killed him.

_“I’ll play the guitar at your funeral.”_

Tommy’s throat felt dry, and Tommy waited for Wilbur to finish his song. When Wilbur stopped strumming, still not looking up from his fingers, Tommy forced himself to speak.

“Wil?” he whispered, his voice hoarser than it probably should be.

Wilbur’s head snapped up, and his face visibly paled.

“Tommy?” he whispered back.

Tommy didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t, instead staring down at the flowers crushed beneath his feet. He could hear the sound of a guitar being placed down haphazardly, and the next thing Tommy knew, his head was against Wilbur’s chest, with Wilbur’s arms firmly around Tommy.

Tommy melted into the embrace without even thinking about it. He didn’t need to. This was Wilbur. This was his brother.

“Oh Tommy,” Wilbur muttered, running a hand through Tommy’s hair, “You aren’t supposed to be here.”

Tommy let out a laugh, but it sounded a little more like a sob. “Yeah, well, things don’t always go to plan, do they?”

Wilbur let out a pained noise, and suddenly Tommy felt the need to reassure him.

“Don’t worry, though,” Tommy said quickly, “I didn’t forget you; I remembered you; I wasn’t alone either, and even remembered to look after your guitars…”

Tears were running down Tommy’s face and onto Wilbur’s elbow. When had Tommy started crying?

“Oh Tommy,” Wilbur breathed, rubbing circles into Tommy’s back, “Thank you, but I don’t care about that. Why are you _here?”_

“I—” Tommy let out a sob. “He hit me. He _killed_ me with the _guitar_.”

Wilbur held Tommy closer as Tommy started full out _sobbing_ into his older brother’s shoulder. They both sunk onto their knees, and Wilbur began rocking Tommy back and forth. Tommy felt like a baby again, but he wasn’t quite sure he cared.

“You really took care of my guitars?” Wilbur asked after Tommy had somewhat calmed down.

It was a diversionary tactic, a blatant subject change, but Tommy took it eagerly.

Tommy nodded. “Uh-huh,” he muttered into Wilbur’s shoulder, “I even played them a little bit.”

“Aw, you did?” Wilbur said, his voice perking up a little bit, “That’s so sweet of you, Toms. You should play something for me.”

Tommy felt his face warm up. “Maybe I will,” he said, “I bet I’m better than you.”

Tommy made no move to leave Wilbur’s arms. They were too warm for that.

Wilbur laughed. “Well, you’ll certainly be better than that Mexican Dream fellow who keeps popping by.”

Tommy laughed himself.

“I missed you,” Tommy whispered.

Wilbur let out a small sigh. “I missed you too.”

“Wil?” Tommy had asked one day when he was eight and Wilbur was sixteen.

Wilbur had looked up from the book he was reading. “Yeah?”

“I don’t want to die.”

Wilbur raised his eyebrows. “Not many people do,” he said, putting his book down and shifting so that Tommy could snuggle up next to him on the couch, “I wouldn’t worry about it. You’re not dying for a long time.”

“What if I do?” Tommy had asked.

Wilbur stayed silent for a moment. Eventually, he whispered, “What brought this on?”

Tommy snuggled deeper into Wilbur’s side. “Nightmare,” he muttered.

Wilbur wrapped an arm around Tommy. “You want to talk about it?”

Tommy shrugged. “I died. People were sad. Some people were happy. I think they wanted me dead.”

Wilbur let out a strange strangled noise at that, and he pulled Tommy into a proper embrace.

“Well I promise that I will _always_ be very sad if you die,” Wilbur said, “But it won’t matter, because you won’t die before I do.”

Tommy whimpered at that, clinging to his brother’s shirt. “I don’t want you to die,” he muttered.

“I won’t,” Wilbur promised, “And neither are you.”

“If I do,” Tommy muttered, “Promise you’ll play the guitar at my funeral? Everyone else would screw it up.”

Wilbur let out a small laugh, but it sounded sad. “Okay, baby,” Wilbur said into Tommy’s hair, “I’ll play the guitar at your funeral.”

“I’m not a baby,” Tommy grumbled.

Wilbur actually laughed at that one.

Meanwhile, in the land of the living, Tubbo took _~~Wilbur’s~~_ Tommy’s guitar and began to play.

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, wasn't planning on adding to this, but I did. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed, please be nice in the comments, and thanks for reading! <3


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